


I'd Search Forever (Just to Bring You Home)

by ladydeathfaerie



Category: The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Language, M/M, Phil is a badass, Phil is not a nice man, Torture, i blame this on feelschat, slightly AU, some violence, written in past and present tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladydeathfaerie/pseuds/ladydeathfaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When they find him, he's been missing for forty-one days.</i>
</p>
<p>Two years after Clint risks everything to rescue Phil from captivity, Phil is forced to do the same. </p>
<p>written as a companion piece to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/gwynhefar/pseuds/gwynhefar">Gwynhefar's</a> <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/510764">I Would Tear Apart the World (Just to Get to You)</a> so please be sure to read that one first</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Search Forever (Just to Bring You Home)

**Author's Note:**

> please be warned that there are mentions of physical torture in this story. i personally don't think they're graphic, but i am not the best judge of these things. so if the very idea bothers you, please do not read any further. also, i tagged this the way i did for a reason. Phil is not very nice in this fic. even he says so. if you find that you don't like or can't stomach my characterization of Phil in this story, i'm very sorry. this is my personal view and i feel Phil's character is very open to interpretation. 
> 
> i believe these are the two biggest possible triggers in this story. if you find anything else, please let me know.

When they find him, he's been missing for forty-one days. There is no auction set up to sell him to the highest bidder. Not like there had been when Phil had been taken. There is only a filthy, windowless room inside of a filthy, long out of use medical facility with a questionable history. There is the metallic tang of spilt blood. There is the strong odor of stale piss. There is the overpowering smell of shit. But beyond that, there is the taste of anger and rage on the air. There is the thick, cloying presence of defiance. And underneath all of that is the faint, undying sense of hope. 

Phil is the only one to step through the door, the only one who gets to look at what they've done to him. There are others with him, some of the most highly trained agents S.H.I.E.L.D. employs. They've accompanied him on this mission on Fury's orders. Phil would have been fine with going in alone, with rescuing Clint alone. The same way Clint had done for him. But orders are orders. Phil isn't going to question them. But he has made it clear that he's the only one who gets to deal with those responsible for taking Clint. He plans on dealing with them personally. 

After flicking his gaze over Clint's body, he plans on ensuring that they suffer the same pain that they have inflicted upon their victim. 

A sick feeling roils in his belly, and Phil is a man who has seen all kinds of things in his many long years of service to S.H.I.E.L.D. He stomps down on the sick sensation. He can't afford to let himself be distracted by emotions. Not now. Not when he's got to mentally catalogue everything he sees for the report he'll have to write when he gets back to base. He can fall apart later, when he's sure that Clint will survive whatever hell the stupid sons-of-bitches have inflicted upon him. He can fall apart later, when he's done everything he needs to do.

There is a stainless steel table bolted to the floor in the middle of the room, the shine worn off by years of use. There are dark, muddy brown stains spotting the table. More of the same leave dotted trails across the plain concrete floor. A wooden table by the wall is covered with various implements used to torture people. Phil can name all of them. Some of them have been used, coated in thick, crusty brown. Some of them are still pristine, as if waiting for the chance to be called into action. A rack decorates one wall. Off to his right is a set of shackles mounted to the floor. Another set dangles from the ceiling. Several pegs near the shackles holds whips. The room is filled with so much equipment for torture. He's mentally cataloguing it all but he plans on having pictures taken. Pictures will make the mission file much more complete. Thorough. 

He finally focuses all of his attention on the single corner that contains the room's only other living soul. A large iron ring rests halfway up the wall, heavy chains draping from it. They end at the thick manacles locked around Clint's wrists. Another set of manacles are closed around his ankles, the chains embedded in the floor. The chains limit his movement and keep him from attacking any of his kidnappers. There's a flat pallet meant to be a bed under him. A dirty bucket waits not too far away.

Clint's head is bent, face turned toward the floor. The chains on the wrist manacles are long enough to allow him to keep them in his lap, which Phil realizes is a small blessing with everything considered. There is a broad expanse of tanned flesh exposed, Clint's shirt long gone. Even from across the room, Phil can see that there are bruises scattered all over his skin, the blossom of sickly colored flowers painting his flesh. There are scrapes and scabs, slices and deeper cuts, all in varying stages of healing. The days and weeks of captivity are written on his body, a tale of pain and humiliation for everyone to read. 

It takes every last ounce of his will to keep his cool. 

Phil becomes aware of the harsh, ragged sounds of Clint's breath, the wetness that plagues it. A small part of him feels the panic pushing closer and closer to the surface. Over the many years he's worked with Clint, and especially over the past two when they have been everything to one another, he's never seen the other man so severely beaten. He's never heard that particular sound coming from the man's throat. Phil knows what it means. 

He lifts one hand to the comm unit in his ear and taps it with one finger. The line crackles to life with a hum and a hiss, then the voices of the team he's led here fill his ear. "I need the medical team to the fifth floor. Operating theater four." 

Clint doesn't lift his head, but he does give a mirthless chuckle. The sound, like his breathing, is wet and harsh. "Took you long enough." 

"Don't talk," Phil orders quietly, already seeking out something with which to unlock the manacles. He doesn't let himself think about what the medical team is going to find when they look at Clint. "Save your energy." 

Clint gives that laugh again, rusty and raspy and filled with wetness. He coughs immediately following, a bright fall of red spilling over his lips. Phil feels the anger and the desire to hurt build inside of him. It looks as if he's arrived just in the nick of time. Someone has been sloppy in applying their fists. Probably because Clint has a smart-assed, snarky comment for just about everything. 

There is a key laying on the table with the torture instruments and Phil finds that laughable. Or he would, if he wasn't so grateful they wouldn't have to go looking for the key. Collecting the thing, an old iron skeleton key, he carries it with him over to where Clint still sits slumped against the wall. Up close, he can see that someone has damaged Clint's hands. The rage Phil's got just barely under control ratchets up another notch, and he's terribly careful when he inserts the key into the lock and turns it. 

The manacle opens with a soft click. The action spurs Phil into working faster. In no time, he has the manacles removed from both wrists and ankles. Clint has yet to move and worry starts to eat its way through the rage. Phil crouches down before him, uncertain as to whether he should touch Clint or not. The urge to do so is running rampant, worry and fear battling for dominance with his rage and disgust. 

Clint solves the dilemma, slowly bringing his head up so that Phil can see the bruises running down the side of his face, the way one eyes is swollen shut and black, the way his lips are dry and cracked and split. And the way the fresh blood stains his lips bright red. His one good eye zeroes in on Phil, the least abused hand reaching out to curl around his tie. "You came for me." There is a disturbing lack of emotion in Clint's words. 

"Did you think I wouldn't?" Phil asks, unable and unwilling to voice everything else he wants to say. That he'd been living on the edge of fear for nearly a month and a half, that he was so stupidly grateful that Clint wasn't dead. The he'd missed him. That he loved him so much. He can't say that here. Not now. "You came for me when everyone else had given me up as a lost cause. I couldn't not return the favor." 

Clint watches him for a moment, then lets his gaze flick toward the door. When that single blue eye returns to his face, there's a wild look in it. A look Phil can't quite decipher. His tongue darts out to moisten his lips, as if he's unsure of his next question, and the hand fisting his tie tightens further. Pulls Phil closer to Clint. With only a few feet separating them, Phil finally understands Clint's look. There are things that no one at S.H.I.E.L.D. knows about him. No one other than Phil and Fury. And probably Hill. "How did you find me?" he finally asks, words spoken in a faint whisper that barely carries to Phil's ear. 

The smile Phil gives Clint is tight and sharp. As feral as it ever gets. "The same way you found me." The med team bursts through the door, loud and bustling as the leader starts barking out orders. Clint's hand goes lax, allowing Phil's tie to slip from his grasp, and drops to his lap. Phil stands up, backs away as the medics swarm around Clint...

**~*~**

"Sir, there's something you need to hear," Sitwell said, sticking his head into Phil's office. Phil looked up at Sitwell, intent on telling him he didn't have time. But the look on the younger man's face stopped him in his tracks. There had been plenty of times that he'd been asked to come hear or see something, only to find that some of the junior agents had been playing pranks. There was no smile on Sitwell's face and, worse, there was a look in his eyes that Phil recognized. It was pity. He put his pen down, exactly center of the paper blotter that protected the old wood finish, then pushed his chair back and rose to his feet.

It was late at night and most of the junior agents had gone home, leaving a smaller crew working. Several of the remaining crew were gathered around a single computer while a static heavy message played over the speakers hidden in the ceiling. It sounded like a police dispatch and Phil was about to take everyone to task for wasting time when the dispatcher mentioned a familiar name. It was that of a local market, one that he and Clint both frequented since there was a location close to their apartment. 

_"It looks like a gang war out here,"_ the voice of a police officer responded. He sounded breathless and perhaps just a little freaked out. _"There are at least five bodies on the ground. The girl behind the cash register said the guy took on at least twice that many before they managed to subdue him."_

Phil felt his heart sputter to a halt in his chest. A dark sense of foreboding traced a path down his spine, prompting him to move closer to the bank of computers everyone had gathered around. A pair of junior agents moved out of his way without protest. That allowed him to move close enough to see the text scrolling across the screen. 

_"Unit fifteen, do you require an ambulance?"_ the dispatcher asked. She sounded cool and detached, untouched by whatever drama the responding officer had walked into. 

_"No. Send the meat wagon. These guys are dead. Also, get a forensics team down here. The clerk said the guy these thugs attacked got snatched."_

_"Affirmative, unit fifteen."_

"Jenkins, I want you to contact the NYPD and let them know that this situation is being handled. Sitwell, gather a team together and meet me at that address." Phil was already on his way to the door. The junior agents were busy scrambling. To get back to work and to do as they'd been told. Sitwell had a phone in his hand. "Call Director Fury before you leave and apprise him of the situation." 

"But he's left for the evening and you know how he hates to be disturbed, sir," Sitwell replied. 

Phil paused and fixed him with a dark, penetrating stare that saw Sitwell going pale. "You call him and apprise him of the situation. If he has any problems with being disturbed, you tell him you called him on my orders. Then get a team down to that grocery store. Get on it now." 

He was gone before Sitwell could answer, hurrying to his office to retrieve a few things he'd need. His mind was turning, unable to latch on to any one thing just yet. He'd known as soon as he'd read the information entered into the police department's computer that it was Clint. The description the caller had given the dispatcher matched him, as did the car. The fact that one man took on five or more thugs at one time practically screamed that it was Clint. Phil was sure someone had attacked Clint in the parking lot of their local grocery store. What Phil wasn't sure about was why someone had attacked Clint in the parking lot of their local grocery store.

It was something of a ritual with Clint by now. He always stopped at that particular store on his way home after a mission to pick up a package of peanut butter cookies out of the bakery and a six pack of IBC root beer. That was how he unwound and relaxed. Neither the cookies nor the root beer lasted longer than twelve hours, long enough for Clint to come down after being gone for any length of time over a day.

Clint had been out on a mission for the past two weeks and he'd ended up returning fairly late at night. After giving his debrief directly to Fury, Clint had stopped into Phil's office to let him know he was back and see how much longer he planned on being. When Phil had told him that he still had a few hours of work to do, Clint had decided to go home and sleep in a real bed for the night. He'd dropped a heated kiss filled with two weeks' worth of longing on Phil's lips, then he'd disappeared out the door. 

Phil's gut said Clint had walked right into a trap. 

By the time he reached the grocery store, there was a huge crowd of onlookers and very annoyed police officers trying to control the scene. Phil strode with purpose toward the yellow tape with his S.H.I.E.L.D. identification bare in his hand. The officer on the perimeter looked at it briefly before turning a look on Phil that said he wasn't going to let some strange government guy in a suit into his crime scene. Very calmly, though he felt far from it, Phil took a pad of paper and a pencil from the inside pocket on his coat and began jotting the cop's last name and badge number down. The man shifted nervously, but still held his ground. "What are you doing?" the cop asked, voice wary. 

Phil glanced up and gave him a steely glare, let hints of the growing pool of rage boiling in his belly show in his eyes. The young cop took an involuntary step back, then immediately righted himself when he realized what he'd done. He was pretty sure the guy had lost some color, though. 

Moments ticked by as Phil stared down the cop, gaze cold and hard. It wasn't long before he heard the distinct sound of tires rolling across the road. Doors opened and closed. He casually pulled the sheet of paper from his pad and held it at his side, hand up next to his face with the slip caught between two fingers. It was pulled from his hold in short order. "Sir?" Sitwell's voice asked calmly. 

"Call the Chief of Police and inform him that Officer Thomas kept a federal agent from investigating a crime involving one of his people," Phil said without looking back. 

"Of course, sir. Right away," Sitwell replied. Phil could tell by the look in the kid's eyes that he was watching Sitwell tug his phone from his pocket. 

"Let me go get the officer in charge of the scene," the kid said before turning away and damn near running toward an older gentleman in a cheap suit. He was talking to another guy, this one younger than him and older than the uniform, in a similarly cheap suit. Phil watched as the kid interrupted them and began talking rapidly. Both detectives lifted their heads and turned to look at Phil. The older of the two nodded his head before breaking away from his partner to head toward Phil. 

The detective opened his mouth to speak. Phil beat him to the punch, holding his identification up so that the man could see it. "My name is Phil Coulson. This is now a federal crime scene and I would appreciate it if your men could handle crowd control while my team gathers forensic evidence."

The detective was taller than Phil. And a little heavier. He was obviously used to using that to his advantage and intimidating people into doing what he wanted. Phil knew that he was lacking his usual finesse, that if he'd pulled his 'regular Joe' shtick with this guy, he'd be making more headway. But he wasn't going to play the meek, silent type. Not with Clint's life on the line. And Clint's life _was_ on the line. Phil could feel it and the desire to find whoever had taken Clint was making him a little rougher than usual. Before the detective could try and railroad Phil, he stepped close and lowered his voice. Made sure that his temper showed in his eyes. "The man who was taken was one of mine. This is a federal investigation. If you want to play hardball with me, I can have you busted down to a beat cop by tomorrow morning. You'll finish out your time with the NYPD directing traffic." 

"You really want to try it?" the detective asked. He sounded cock sure that he'd come out on top. 

"I eat guys like you for breakfast," Phil replied, not an ounce of boasting to be heard in his tone. He should be playing nice with the NYPD, but he didn't have time to kiss anyone's ass. "Do yourself a favor and save your pension." 

Maybe it was the level tone of his voice. Maybe it was the cold as could be stare he was giving the man. Maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever it was, it convinced the detective to back down. And maybe regard Phil with an ounce or two of fear coloring his gaze. He nodded his head. "Officer Thomas! These men will be taking charge of the scene. I want you and the rest of the uniforms to work crowd control. Give the g-men whatever it is they need."

"Yes, sir!" the young cop agreed. 

"Thank you, detective. You can go home now." Phil didn't wait to see if the other man listened. He turned to Sitwell and started issuing his own orders. He wanted witness statements, fingerprints off the corpses, all of the gathered evidence, photos. He also ordered that the corpses be sent to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s own pathology department. "And I want all of the surveillance footage from every camera in the area." 

"Yes, sir," Sitwell nodded and turned to walk away. His steps paused, and he swung around to face Phil one more time. There was a faintly apprehensive look on his face, but he pushed it aside and spoke what was on his mind. "We'll find him, sir." 

Then he was gone and Phil was left to hope that they would.

**~*~**

It takes every ounce of will to keep some distance between himself and Clint while the medical team does what they're there for. The three members of the team are all hovering over Clint and each is performing their own tasks. One is checking pulse and blood pressure. Another seems to be assessing one of the many layers of bruises on his arms. The third has already found a vein and fed a needle into it. He is in the process of hooking up an IV, most likely to push fluids and possibly some antibiotics.

The three of them are conversing amongst one another, voices a low murmur in the otherwise silent room. Phil feels utterly useless, a sensation he isn't really comfortable with. He's spent his life being in charge, of knowing exactly what to do and when. Standing back and letting someone else see to Clint's injuries bothers him in a way he can't even begin to describe. But he only has basic medical knowledge, the kind of knowledge that can be applied to field medicine. He can stabilize a broken limb, give the most general first aid. But the abuse inflicted upon Clint is severe and beyond Phil's capabilities. He suddenly feels as if he is lacking and the sensation is not a good one. 

There is a rattle from the hall that suggests some kind of gurney is on its way. Phil doesn't like to think what that implies even though he knows rationally that Clint is in no condition to walk out of here on his own two legs. What he likes even less is the fact that Clint hasn't made any effort at all to push the medics away. He hasn't even snarked at them. Instead, he's remained limp, back leaned up against the wall while the team goes over his vitals and every inch of visible skin. At present, they're studying his hands, their voices subdued to the point that he isn't even sure the archer can hear them. 

There is no doubt that Clint is the most talented sniper Phil has ever worked with. In fact, there isn't another soul on the planet with Clint's abilities. He knows that Clint prefers the bow and arrow over conventional, modern weapons, but he also knows that there isn't a weapon on the planet that Clint can't use if he needs to. After Triple A had abducted him, Phil had learned that there were weapons Clint was proficient with that S.H.I.E.L.D. knew nothing about. But the thing all of those weapons have in common is that they are all held in the hands, manipulated by the hands. And if the bastards responsible for kidnapping Clint have done permanent damage to Clint's hands, there is nothing in the world, no one on the face of the planet who will stop both Clint and Phil from hunting them down and exacting revenge on them. 

A pair of men in white come in with a gurney caught between them and breeze past Phil. He finds himself stepping back even further, giving the medical team even more room to work. The hushed talking continues, little more than a buzz of noise in the otherwise silent room. He takes a minute to think about that and frowns. He hasn't heard a peep out of Clint since the medics burst into the room. He doesn't like it because Clint always snarks at medical and always insists he doesn't need to get checked out by the doctors staffed by S.H.I.E.L.D. Phil doesn't know why, but the knowledge that Clint isn't fighting being taken to a hospital sends a river of fear trickling down his spine. 

Clint's face is pale under his tan, his skin a sickly color that makes Phil think he's lost more blood than is healthy. The jostle of movement has brought drops of sweat beading up on Clint's forehead, darkening his hair and plastering it to his skin. The crimson drops of blood staining his lips are bright and mocking against the ashen hue of his flesh.

Again, the fear and worry battle with the rage and anger.

On some level, Phil has always known that it would be a mission gone tits up that will be his downfall. He's accepted that his life will end with violence. Its something he's made peace with. What he hasn't been able to reconcile in his thoughts is that Clint's life could be taken from him in the same manner as he expects to die. He's considered it, but he's never really let himself think about it. Anytime he's tried, his mind has immediately thrown up blockades to keep the images of Clint's broken and bloodied body at bay. There is so much about caring for someone else that is far more painful than any knife or bullet wound could ever be. There are days when Phil thinks that his emotions will keep him buoyed on cloud nine for all time. Then there are days when he feels his emotions will scrape him raw from the inside out. This is one of those days. 

He doesn't know what the others see when they look at him. Some part of him acknowledges that he likely wears the bland, blank mask that has long been his trademark. The look that makes people think he doesn't care, that he's as cool as a cucumber. He doubts anyone sees the well-deep concern for his partner. And he's certain that no one knows about the trembling hope that refuses to die, that clings like an ivy gone wild. He loves Clint so much. And he dare not show it. Not here. Not now. He hates that he's so good at keeping it from people. 

There's a rattle of metal on metal that pulls Phil from his thoughts. The medical team has Clint ready for transport. There is a warm blanket pulled up to his chin, the straps secured to keep him from shifting while in motion. The IV bag lays on Clint's chest and someone has slipped an oxygen mask over his face. It is the frailest Phil has ever seen Clint look. 

The two of them share a look as the medical team wheels the gurney out of the room. There is no time for words. Not that Phil has any to say. But he makes sure that Clint can see in his eyes that he will do everything he has to in order to make the people responsible pay. Clint gives a slow, weak blink that tells Phil he understands. Then he's gone, the sounds of the gurney rolling across the tiled floor growing softer as it moves further away, and Phil is alone in a room that smells of abuse and torture and hope and Clint. 

Phil sighs, a soft puff of air that disturbs the silence of the room. He lets his eyes skim the entire area, memorizing every single detail. Then he turns his attention to the chatter coming through his comm unit and starts issuing instructions about clean up to the rest of his team.

**~*~**

Determination burned in Phil's eyes when he let himself, unannounced, into Director Fury's office. For all that he was a master spy and seemed to know everything that happened around him, Nick actually startled a little bit, just a twitch of the shoulders, when Phil shut the door loudly. It was as close to slamming the door Phil had ever come. He watched as the other man let his single eye take in the tense set of his old friend's shoulders and face before he sighed and motioned toward the chair across his desk. "Have a seat, Phil. I get the feeling this isn't a social call."

Phil took great care in settling himself in the chair and, in a move that was as uncharacteristic as the ball of rage knotted up under Phil's heart, he put his hands on his knees and leaned forward. And gave Nick a hard stare that had scared many a new recruit and junior agent. "Clint's been taken." 

Fury nodded. "I heard the news." 

When nothing more was forthcoming, Phil rose from his seat and let himself tower over his seated superior. He placed his hands very carefully on the edge of Fury's desk and angled himself toward the other man. "That's all you have to say?" 

"What would you like me to say, Phil? You can't honestly say you weren't expecting something like this to happen? You and I both know the kinds of enemies Barton has made over the years." Fury sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Its only amazing that it took this long for his past to catch up with him." 

"A past that he wouldn't have had to expose if not for me. A past you put to good use in your search for information, Nick," Phil pointed out, voice quiet and low and dangerous. Since Phil's rescue and Clint's subsequent explanation to Fury as to just how he'd managed to find Phil, Fury had kept Clint close at hand. Of course Barton had been forced to explain to Fury just how he'd gotten his hands on Phil's location. And Fury, ever a crafty bastard, had seen more potential in keeping Clint under thumb than under lock and key. That wasn't to say that Fury hadn't been more than a little peeved to discover that one of the men he'd had on his "Most Wanted" list had been under his nose for years. He'd made Clint pay in his own way for withholding such information from him. "You owe him the same amount of courtesy you'd owe any other agent taken hostage." 

"No other agent in my employ has the same underworld connections that Barton has," Fury pointed out calmly. 

"Which makes him that much more important to you," Phil replied just as calmly. It was a special feat considering he was boiling with rage inside. 

Fury mulled that comment over for a while before he shrugged a shoulder in a dismissive gesture. "We don't know who's taken him," he countered.

Phil didn't blink. "Video surveillance taken from the grocery store's parking lot where Barton was taken and surrounding businesses gave us a few faces. I've got a team working on finding an identification in the database. The dead bodies have yielded fingerprints. Those are being run as we speak." 

Fury sighed and sat back in his chair. Phil watched as he brought his hands together, steepled them before him, and stared intently at Phil's face. He was pretty sure he knew what was coming, had been expecting it for some time, actually. Fury had asked him once, right after Clint had brought him back to headquarters and he'd made his case on the archer's behalf, just what there was between the two of them that Phil was willing to risk his career for a known criminal wanted for countless deaths. Phil hadn't answered then and Nick had let him get away with it. Now, though... Phil was sure his luck had just run out. 

"What's Barton to you, Phil?" Fury asked bluntly. It wasn't a specific question. Phil could have hemmed and hawed his way through it. Could have made Nick ask for the information he sought directly. But he didn't. He knew he'd stand a better chance of gaining his friend's cooperation if he just came right out and said it. Not that he didn't think Nick wasn't already aware. But years of working with the man had taught him that Nick liked to have everything spelled out for him. It was so there would be no mistake when he used that information to end you. 

"Before I was taken? He was my asset. My agent. My friend." Phil paused and pinned Nick with a look that said the other man wouldn't like the consequences if he fucked around in Phil's life. Nick wasn't the only one who knew how to make a person's life a living hell. "After he risked everything to rescue me, he became a great deal more. He's my partner and my lover in every way. And I will get him back." 

Nick nodded his head slowly. "I see.

"With or without your help, Nick," Phil added. 

The room fell to silence while Fury considered Phil's ultimatum. They both knew what it meant. Phil desperately wanted his friend's help in this matter, because Clint was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. The aliases and identities of the past were just that. The past. The agency was Clint's here and now. Phil was his future. But if Nick said he wasn't going to lift a finger, Phil would throw all of it away to get Clint back. And Fury would lose two assets instead of just one. 

Phil was sure he'd win. He'd thought this conversation through before even showing up in Nick's office. The other man might consider Clint's loss acceptable, but he'd never feel the same about losing Coulson. And Phil knew, even if Fury never said it, that the man liked Clint. Despite his dark and illegal past, Clint had a moral code that he stuck to. He would do what was needed, but he didn't revel in inflicting pain or killing. It was what made him a good agent and a good man. Clint had remained loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D. over the years. Phil had no illusions about that. He knew that Clint's loyalty came so easily because of Phil. And Fury knew it, too. If Nick made the wrong call and Phil quit to help Clint, Nick Fury would end up on the top of Barton's "Most Wanted" list. Clint might not ever do anything personally to Nick, but he'd do everything in his power to make sure that he hurt Fury where it mattered most. Information. 

The sigh that rolled across the room was long and loud. Nick leaned forward and rested his elbows on his desk. "You find out where he is and you can have a team to bring him home, Phil. I've invested too much time in Barton to let him go. And he's a good asset to the agency. So you find him. And you bring him home." 

"Thank you, Nick." 

Fury pointed one long finger in his direction. "Don't thank me yet. If things get out of hand the mission goes tits up, I will personally take it out of your hide. And if you can't find him within an acceptable amount of time, I'm going to pull the plug. That means you have two months. No more than two months. If you cannot locate Barton in sixty days, he's in the wind and I'm not giving you anymore manpower to find him. Do you understand me?" 

"Perfectly, sir," Phil replied calmly. After sixty days, Phil was on his own. But that was okay, because he had resources that Fury didn't. 

They stared at each other across the space of Fury's desk for several long seconds. He could see by the look in the other man's eyes that Nick suspected something. But he said nothing about his suspicions. Instead, he once more leaned back in his chair and motioned with one hand. "Tell me what we know, Agent Coulson." 

Phil nodded and slipped back into his professional demeanor. "Approximately an hour ago, S.H.I.E.L.D. received a call placed to the New York Police about a group of men in black attacking a lone man in a grocery store parking lot. Based on the description of the victim and the large number of attackers, it was determined that the lone man was Agent Barton, fresh off his mission."

**~*~**

The return to S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters is made in silence. Phil and his team are seated on a private jet, something built by Stark's company. During the trip, Phil sees nothing of Clint. There are reports to begin and far too many other pressing tasks that he simply cannot push them aside to worry over Clint. Not that he doesn't want to. The last he'd seen Clint, the other man had been pale and sliding toward unconsciousness. Phil is anxious to know how he's doing. But the people with him do not need to know his personal business. He and Clint have never flaunted their relationship before other people. Phil isn't going to start now.

The flight is shorter than one would expect. Stark's jet comes equipped with some experimental engines that provide faster speeds than Concorde before that plane had been decommissioned. Phil knows that Fury decided to use Clint's extraction as a test run. If he likes the jet's performance, he plans on talking to Stark about contract work. 

An ambulance awaits them and it whisks Clint away before Phil has an opportunity to check on him. Sitwell is waiting by a car that will take Phil back to headquarters where he can debrief Fury on the operation. Phil is tired and would rather go home. The adrenalin that had come with the mission is long gone, leaving him bone-weary and drained. Sadly, Fury will not wait for him to shower and eat and sleep. He'll want to know everything that happened right away. Which is why Phil is armed with a full report of the entire operation, from the moment they took off to the moment they touched down. He's prepared for his meeting with Fury. If he's lucky, he can get the debriefing done, get showered and cleaned up, eat something, and be waiting for Clint in the room Phil knows they'll be putting him in after repairing whatever damage has been done to him.

Nick is sitting behind his desk, face drawn in tight lines that suggest he has been concerned about the outcome of this mission. Phil enters the office on silent feet and takes the seat across from the other man without being told. He's sure he know the picture he presents to his longtime friend. He hasn't slept in several days and there is no small amount of blood spattered on his suit. Phil was careful to pick off any larger bits. It is as clean as he plans to get until he can ascertain Clint's status. He can shower and change later. 

Once again, there is a deep silence between them. Fury wears that look Phil knows he gets when he's considering some action. When he's pondering what word or phrase to use with someone. He's used it with many agents who have made a horrible decision in the field. He's used it with suspects that he's interrogated. He's never before really turned it toward Phil. If Phil were a lesser man, or if he had reason to feel guilty, he'd be squirming in his seat under the intense weight of that stare. But he is neither a lesser man nor riddled with guilt. He sits still and silent as Nick simply stares at him.

"You were supposed to play this low key, Phil. Get in, find Barton, and get him out. You weren't supposed to go World War three on people's asses. I've got calls coming in from government officials who want to know why I let a rogue team go in to a friendly nation and destroy a few city blocks." There is a touch of condemnation in Fury's voice. But there is more curiosity. 

Phil gives him a thin smile and sits back in his chair. "We did not destroy a few city blocks." 

"But you gave the orders to blow up a condemned hospital?" 

Phil considers his answer to Nick, knows that he'll be judged no matter what he says. So he goes with the closest proximation to the truth. He's sure Fury will pick up on the real reason, but there is no need to put a name to it now. They're well past those kinds of explanations. "Triple A was running a drug lab out of the place. Volatile chemicals are so touchy. Its surprising that they didn't go off in the middle of the operation." He shrugs one shoulder negligently to emphasize his point. 

"You got Barton out?" Nick asks, even though Phil is sure he already knows the answer to that question. 

"We found him. Everything is in my mission report," Phil replies. He sees Nick puff up in prelude to demanding that Phil tell him everything, she he pushes on before the other man can speak. "We stormed the remnants of an old hospital on the outskirts of Algiers to find that it was being used to produce meth and various other illegal pharmaceuticals. We dealt with the small, armed force left to guard the place and liberated Agent Barton from their not so tender care." 

Nick gave him a look that said he clearly smelled the shit Phil was shoveling. "How is Agent Barton?" 

"He's in surgery. The medical team that went in with me believes that he has a punctured lung. The fact that he was coughing up blood lends credence to their diagnosis. Someone attempted to cripple his hands. We won't know the extent of the damage there until a full set of x-rays are done. His skin bears bruises, cuts, and scrapes. He's lost weight and he's dehydrated." 

Fury snorted. "What you're saying is you found him in the nick of time." 

"I believe so, sir," Phil replied steadily. The fear that has been eating at him since finding Clint is kept locked away firmly, but something in the way his friend regards him suggests that he isn't hiding it as well as he would like to. Or perhaps it is simply because he and Nick have known one another for so long that the other man knows what to look for, can see what others cannot. 

They both fall silent as Phil contemplates Clint's prognosis and Fury allows something to run rampant in his mind. Phil can see it by the way Nick's thoughts flicker in his one eye. Normally, he keeps a stony face to prevent people from seeing what he might be thinking. But he doesn't do this with Phil. Not any longer. They've been friends so long that to hide what he's thinking would be an insult. And if Nick Fury is going to insult someone, he prefers to do it verbally. So there is no misunderstanding about his intentions. 

He waits in silence for his boss to speak what's on his mind. He knows its coming. Its only a matter of time before Fury gets his thoughts together and says what he's thinking. Phil could get up and leave, but that would only prolong the inevitable. And its an insult he doesn't plan on giving to the other man. Nick has earned Phil's respect and he would never insult him that way. There has always been a strict, if silent, code of honor between the two of them. 

Several long minutes pass before Nick shifts in his chair, the sound loud in the quiet around them. It signals the end of Phil's reprieve. The look his boss wears, because now Fury is acting as his boss, suggests that he'd better not hold anything back. Phil gives him a bland smile in invitation. He's ready for anything Nick can throw at him. 

"I can see a change in you, Phil. There's a hardness in your eyes that I've never seen there before. The state of your suit tells me that you did things to retrieve Barton that you would never have done for another asset. Can you live with the things you did?" 

"My conscience is clear," Phil assures him. And it is. Because Clint had risked everything to get Phil back. Phil would do his partner a disservice by doing no less. He feels there is no reason to regret the ends he had to go to in order to find Clint and bring him home. There is nothing quite so terrible as having your heart split in two. Clint is the love of his life and he knows there is nothing that he wouldn't do to keep Clint alive and with him. Nothing. 

"And is Barton worth the blood on your hands? This wasn't just a mission, Phil. This was a vendetta." 

"Manuel Ortiz, one of the biggest dealers in information, is in custody. Peter Jeffries, the head of Triple A, is in custody. And Karel Grigoryev, notorious arms and drug dealer, is in custody. All three of them are responsible for kidnapping Clint. Because he exposed himself as Ronin to rescue me, he opened himself up to something like this." Phil doesn't add that S.H.I.E.L.D. owed him for it. 

Nick nods. Once. "But was he worth it? Was everything you did to find out where he is worth it?" 

Phil rises from his seat and stares down at Nick. "He was worth all of it and more. I'd do it all again if I had to." He means every word of it. Before Nick can say anything else, Phil turns and heads for the door. He's got his hand on the knob, about to turn it, when Fury's voice stays the action. 

"Just how did you find where Barton was being held, Phil?" 

He sends Nick a mysterious smile over his shoulder and lets himself out into the hall. That is for Clint to know and for no one else to ever find out.

**~*~**

The storage unit had been untouched since the last time he'd been there, when Clint had put away the Ronin trappings he'd used to find Phil. Clint had waited until Phil had been cleared by medical and had taken him with. It had shown a great deal of trust on Clint's part that he'd allowed Phil to see that part of his life that he tried to pretend had never happened. The archer had told him that he'd long ago put away Ronin and his other aliases, because none of them had meant anything to him anymore. That he'd resorted to Ronin in order to save Phil when others had given up had spoken volumes that Clint himself had never spoken himself.

There had been many surprises that day, the first of which had been Clint entrusting Phil with the code to the storage unit. The unit was registered under one of Clint's aliases, one that S.H.I.E.L.D. had not discovered. And it contained every last bit of Clint's criminal life. If Fury ever got hold of what this unit held, there wouldn't be anything Phil could do to save Clint. That wasn't likely to happen because Phil knew that Clint had more or less buried that life upon his employment at S.H.I.E.L.D. The only reason he'd picked it up again was to find Phil. 

Phil owed him for that.

There were boxes of unwanted things at the front of the unit, mostly to make it look like it was being used by some suburban family with too much clutter and not enough room. Clint had obviously set it up that way so that if anyone got suspicious, it wouldn't look as if there was anything hidden inside the unit. Phil wasn't sure if there was anything of value or use in the boxes. But there was a path between them that led to the back of the unit, to a stack of shelves that contained the tricks of Clint's illicit trade. Phil worked his way along the narrow path, careful not to disturb the way the camouflaging boxes were arranged, to those shelves and their contents. 

The light was harsh and unrelenting, a pair of bare bulbs that hung at the front and back of the space. Everything was cast in harsh relief, stark white light shining down on the boxes and shelves alike. There was a small desk set next to the shelving unit on one wall. The wall at his back held more shelves and some filing cabinets. Clint had explained that the filing cabinets contained papers written in an old code he'd learned as a child back during his circus days. No one knew the code he'd used and the only copy to decipher it was inside of Clint's head. Phil ignored those cabinets and focused his attention on the desk and the shelves. 

There were four different laptops set in a neat row on the desk. Each one belonged to one of Clint's aliases. Phil picked up the black one. That was Ronin's laptop and it was the one that Phil was going to access in order to find out where Clint was being held. Clint had used Ronin to find Phil. Now Phil was going to use Ronin to return that favor. 

He hated doing things this way. Phil liked working within the law. He liked working within _S.H.I.E.L.D.'s_ law. But doing so was getting him nowhere. The team Fury had left him assemble after Clint's kidnapping had found nothing so far that would be helpful. The dead had been identified, but they'd had no real ties to any major crime organization or underworld figure. They'd all been small potatoes, underlings hired by some unnamed person to kidnap Clint. Beyond that, they'd found nothing. Because there hadn't been an electronic trail to follow. Time was running out and Phil had gotten no place. It was time to resort to drastic measures.

After stowing the laptop in the bag he'd brought with, he turned his attention to the shelves. They were loaded with weapons that Clint had collected over the years. When Clint had been brought into the agency, they'd known that he was proficient with firearms and the bow. But no one had really stopped to consider how Clint had become so capable. The shelves were a testament to his abilities. 

Each shelf was custom crafted with a special resting place for each weapon Clint owned. There was an assortment of handguns and rifles. One entire shelf was dedicated to a sniper rifle. He took a moment to study the weapon, fingers twitching with the urge to run over the cold metal barrel. Clint with a bow was deadly. Phil wasn't sure he wanted to see what Clint with a sniper rifle was capable of.

He made his way through the various weapons laid out before him, mentally going over what he may or may not have to do in the coming days and weeks. Naturally he had the sidearm issued to him by S.H.I.E.L.D. at his disposal, but he didn't think he wanted any illegal activities tied back to that gun. He could always use something out of the agency's vast arsenal, as he had nearly unlimited access. However, there was something laughably poetic about dealing with Clint's kidnappers with Clint's own weapons. 

Phil selected a few of the guns, slipping them into the same bag that held the laptop after ensuring that each was unloaded and the safety had been switched on. He retrieved boxes of ammunition to go with each weapon and put those into the bag. He didn't need to take many. If he was in a situation where he had to fire off more than half a dozen rounds, there was no hope of his coming out of it alive. But there was one thing he needed to pick up before he left. 

Phil turned his attention to the wall where a handful of bladed weapons were mounted. There were _hira shuriken_ with honed edges, small throwing stars he had no doubt Clint was quite skilled with. There were two katanas, a long sword, a Roman gladiator, and a few daggers and short swords. Most of them looked as if they were ornamental. But Phil knew that one of those katanas was very much meant for use. Phil had seen it before. 

He reached for it, hands reverent as he brought the blade down from the wall. The sword was light in his grip, barely weighing anything at all. He drew the blade from the sheath, tested the balance of the gorgeous piece of weaponry in his hands. It was light and it sang as it sliced through the air. It was also just as deadly as one of the guns Phil had chosen. And it was known to be Ronin's. Phil was taking it with. 

He had his suspicions about Clint's kidnapping. Intuition said that it had happened because Clint had exposed his identity to find Phil. He'd opened himself up to his enemies and Phil blamed himself for that. He hadn't expected that kind of loyalty from Clint, hadn't really felt he'd deserved it. But Clint had considered him worthy enough to risk ruining his life. Phil could do no less than return that favor. No matter the cost. 

It was this thought, this reasoning, that had brought him to Clint's storage unit. He was aware that he could have waited until he'd found out where Clint was being held and who was holding him before deciding upon the weapons he was going to use. But he felt that it would draw too much attention if he came here too often. He had no doubt that Fury would be looking for something just like this. And, if not Fury, then someone else. He wasn't going to have Clint's life ruined by his carelessness. Not again. 

Phil spent a few moments staring at the black pile of material that spends its time hidden away inside of an ornate wooden box. The Ronin costume that Clint had worn to the trade with Triple A. That he'd put on to rescue Phil. It wasn't just a costume, though. It was a part of Clint's life, a part of who he was. Not who he had been but who he was, a part that had shaped him. Phil considered wearing it, considered using it as a means of communication with Clint. They'd spoken of his past, but Clint had never asked Phil about his thoughts or feelings. Phil could wear the costume as a way of letting Clint know that he understood and that he didn't care.

He left it in its box. The laptop and the katana would be enough. Phil would go as himself, a _representative_ of Ronin. A man who worked for someone much bigger and much more powerful than himself. It really wasn't so far off the mark. Besides, even though Phil was sure he could wear the Ronin costume, Clint was broader through the shoulders and hips and his arms and legs were more muscular and defined. 

No. Phil would go as Phil Coulson, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. And he would rain down Hell upon anyone who dared harm his asset. 

Phil stowed the katana in the bag carefully, made his way to the front of the unit with slow, even steps, flicked off the lights. Stepped out into the broad daylight. And left a small part of his soul behind.

**~*~**

It is dark out when Clint finally wakes. Night has crept in and stolen away the light, leaving the room in near darkness save the light on over the bed. For once, Phil is not surrounded by paperwork. There are no files on the rolling tray provided by the hospital for patients to use when in bed. There is no tablet in his hand upon which he is reading reports or looking over important emails. There is nothing but a glass of ice water and an empty coffee cup.

The drugs make Clint groggy, slow to wake. It is an unusual event because Clint's ability to remain alive depends on his snapping awake instantly. The medical staff have him on an IV that pumps painkillers and antibiotics into his system, as well as nearly empty bags of blood and saline. Some of the ashen color has left his face, but the paleness still lingers under the perpetual tan. There are dark circles under his eyes and, under the stark but dim light over his bed, it is easy to see how his flesh has been pared down to the point of thin and undernourished. A pang of self-loathing washes through Phil to see his lover like this. Clint would say it wasn't Phil's fault this happened, but they both know it to be a lie. 

Phil wonders, as he often has, if letting his emotions get the best of him where Clint is concerned wasn't some cardinal sin. There are very few relationships within the ranks of the agency. Naturally there are rules about dating one's co-workers, but the fact of the matter is that such liaisons are generally overlooked because it is difficult to find someone to unwind with when you can't tell them the source of your stress. Fury has politely pretended that there is nothing going on between Clint and Phil. But the fact is, Phil has broken a few rules here and there by entering into a relationship with Clint. And he can't help but think that perhaps having Clint nearly taken from him is some punishment for his sin.

That isn't to say he'll ever willingly give Clint up. They click together in a way that he's ever seen few couples manage. It is quite literally like slipping tab A into slot B. They complete each other. Not in the overly romanticized version of books and movies kind of way, but on a more physical and personal level. They understand each other far better than any civilian could ever understand them. 

Clint gets Phil's need for order and justice. These are ideals that are burned into his brain and his soul, are what saw him first joining the Army and becoming a Ranger. It is these ideals that saw him joining S.H.I.E.L.D. when asked. They are what drives him to be the man he is. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so surprisingly, Phil sees these same qualities in Clint. It does not matter that Clint used to buy and sell information to the highest bidder. Nor does it matter that he is one of the most feared assassins in the underworld. That is a life that is in the past. It is a life that has shaped Clint into the person he is now. A man with strong morals and beliefs. A man who knows right from wrong. A man that Phil loves deeply and without hesitation. Clint loves him just as deeply in return, though Phil often wonders why. 

Maybe its because the sex between them is pretty fucking amazing.

"You look like shit," Clint rasps, voice hoarse and raw. Phil leans forward, the glass of water in his hand, and offers the straw to the other man. Clint takes a few small sips, then lets the straw slip from between his lips. He manages a shadow of his shit eating grin. "Babysitting me again?" 

"You have a nasty habit of getting yourself hurt, Agent Barton," Phil replies mildly. There is warmth and pleasure in his voice. This is an old routine between them, something that has happened more than once over the years they've worked together. Been together. Phil reaches out a hand and takes hold of Clint's, careful of how he grips it. The staff has assured him that there is no permanent damage done to the archer's hands. The bones are intact, but there is bruising and swelling that will have to go down and heal before Clint can use his hands again.

"All in a day's work," Clint tells him. There is no laughter to accompany that statement, just a heavy, world-weary sigh. "Seriously, Phil. You look like shit. Haven't you been home to change yet?" 

In fact, he hasn't. As soon as his debriefing with Fury ended, he made his way to the medical ward to check up on Clint. He's removed his coat, likely well beyond saving with the amount of dried blood caked into it, and his tie and tossed them over the back of one of the other chairs. The top two buttons on his shirt are undone, as are the buttons on his cuffs. He knows that there is dried blood under his fingers and likely spattered on his face. He does not care. Clint is, always will be, his first priority. He shakes his head and gives a faint grin. "I had more important things to do." 

"I don't need you to babysit me, Phil. I'm a big boy," Clint chides. Phil merely gives him a look that says there's no place in the world he'd rather be and Clint should just shut up right now. Surprisingly, the other man does just that. Phil listens to the steady beeping of the monitors for a while, his eyes on Clint as his lover simply breathes and lets go of some of the tension that still clings to his muscles. After several minutes of silence, Clint speaks again. "You came for me." 

There is a hoarseness to his words that goes beyond the time he spent in captivity. There is disbelief in his voice, too. He resolutely isn't looking at Phil. Phil bites back the sigh and forces his voice into quiet, even tones. He sometimes forgets that Clint has an insane idea that Phil will one day wake up and realize that he wants nothing to do with the other man. Clint spent much of his life alone, even when among the people he loved. He's afraid that this time, he'll lose the person he loves. And nothing Phil tells him makes him realize that Phil isn't going anywhere. 

"I'll always come for you when you need me, Clint," Phil tells him softly. "You're a part of me. I won't ever let you go. One day, I hope you'll realize that I mean this." 

Clint's eyes close, lids drooping down slow and heavy. The drugs are taking hold again. Or Clint is just that tired. Phil has no idea how long he had to remain hypervigilant, how long he had to remain focused against his captors. When his voice comes this time, its thick with the drugs and the desire to dissolve back into the black nothingness of sleep. "You found them?" 

"I found them, Clint," Phil assures him. If there's a slight edge of hard pleasure in his voice, he doesn't care. He thinks Clint hears it because his eyes struggle to open, but the fight is short lived and Clint gives in to the inevitable. "Manuel Ortiz, Peter Jeffries, and Karel Grigoryev. They're all in custody as we speak. They're awaiting a round of questioning." 

"Ronin?" Clint whispers. Phil understands what the other man is asking. 

"Ronin. They thought they had him. But they learned their lesson when one of Ronin's underlings came looking for him." Phil lets the hard edge to his voice sharpen into the blade of a knife, ready to cut and eager for blood. This time, Clint manages to pry his eyes open so that he can flick a drug-hazed glance Phil's way. 

"What did you do, Phil?" 

Phil holds Clint's stare so that the other man will understand that Phil thinks he was worth it. That everything he did to get the love of his life back was worth it. He lets Clint see the truth of his emotions in his eyes. Watches as Clint shakes his head, a slightly jerky movement, as he tries to deny it. Phil smiles, a toothy thing that is all malice and little warmth. 

"God, Phil. What did you do?" 

When Phil answers him, when he puts it into words, there is a coldness to his voice that makes Clint shiver. "Whatever I had to."

**~*~**

"What do you want, man?" Willy's accent grew stronger when the fear was running through his veins. If Phil was a lesser man, he'd let that fear act like an aphrodisiac. But this kind of business disgusted him. It was an unwanted necessity and he was committed in order to find Clint. But that didn't mean he was into torture.

No. He was just damned good at it. 

"I told you. My employer has said you're a veritable font of information. And I'm looking for information. About a missing S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. His name is Clint Barton." Phil stepped closer to Willy and gave him his blandest smile. Willy twitched, ever so slightly. A sign that he knew something. Phil watched as the man's eyes got bigger, as his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared. He knew Clint's name. Now they were getting somewhere.

Phil stepped into the light and looked down at Willy. His file listed him as Wilhelm Gottlieb and he was one of Ronin's regular information brokers. Phil had gotten the name off of Clint's laptop. He'd gotten Willy off a corner in Vienna by use of a sleeping dart to the neck. The drugs had only kept him out for a few hours, long enough for Phil to drag him to an interrogation room. The table before Willy and the chair he was sitting on were bolted to the floor. A large ring was bolted to the table top. Willy's hands were cuffed to the ring.

" _Was_?" Willy slipped into German, his accent thickening with his rising panic. He forced himself to stop and swallow, gave himself time to collect his wits. "What do you want?" 

"You know who Clint Barton is. You know who has him. You're going to tell me," Phil replied and took the seat opposite the other man. He let the chair's legs scrape across the floor. Watched with his bland smile when Willy jumped at the sound. Phil folded his arms across the surface and leaned forward ever so slightly. "You can start talking now, Willy." 

"What makes you think I'd tell you anything? Even if I did know where this Barton person is. You're a government stooge. I have nothing to say to you." Willy tried to sit back in the chair, but the short chain on his cuffs kept him pulled close to the table. 

Phil eyed him speculatively for a moment or two, then leaned to the side and let his fingers curl around the sheath of the katana. He lifted it carefully, laid it on the table's surface without making a sound. Willy's eyes went to the blade, to the distinctive black and silver leather that wrapped the hilt and the accents of gold that matched the Ronin costume. Phil watched the other man's eyes go wide and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. 

"That sword. I know that sword. It belongs to Ronin," Willy whispered. Phil could see the gears turning in his mind, trying to work it all out. "But how did you get your hands on it? Ronin is..." The man caught himself before he said anything more. But he knew that the damage was done. His fists clenched and he tried pulling against his bonds. Phil expected anywhere but where he was looked really attractive to Willy right about now. 

"Yes. This sword belongs to Ronin. And Ronin is my employer," Phil told him evenly. Willy's eyes got wider, if that was even possible. Phil gave Willy a moment or two to chew on that, then pushed on. "As it so happens, Clint Barton is in Ronin's employ and we both know that Ronin is not the forgiving type. He wants his employee back, Willy. And he's authorized me to use any means necessary to see that it happens."

The threat was implicit. But just to make sure that Willy understood what was at stake, Phil brought a Desert Eagle out from under his suit coat and laid that on the table. He finished the threat with a double-edged dagger. He let his hands rest on the table behind the weapons so that Willy would have an unobstructed view of them. And he turned that bland smile back on the other man, letting him soak in the notion that Phil was willing to do whatever it took to get information from a source. Any source. Any action necessary. 

Willy turned wide eyes toward Phil's face, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard once again. The expression on his face said he was starting to understand that Phil wasn't playing. "I can't tell you anything." 

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear here, Willy. I don't care if you say they'll kill you. It won't matter if they've said they'll kill you. I will not give them a chance to kill you because I'll do it myself. I will make it slow and painful. I will make sure you bleed out inch by inch. And I'll watch it happen. I'll sit here and watch with my bland expression until your breathe your last breath," Phil assured him cheerfully. He leaned forward and laid a hand on the katana, let his fingers caress the hilt lovingly. "Don't think that I can't or won't, that I don't have the know how or the stomach. I am adeptly trained in all forms of interrogation. All of them. I prefer to gather my information by much gentler means. But I will not hesitate to slice you apart piece by piece." 

Willy gave him a look that was meant to be defiant. The problem was there was too much fear rolling off him to allow it to be anything more than the kind of expression one saw on a deer's face right before one hit it with their car. Willy could see the vehicle approaching and he couldn't see a way to stop it, but he was still going to try and deflect it. 

"If you give me the information I want, Willy, I'll just shoot you in the head so that no one can kill you. It'll be fast and painless. Like falling asleep. They won't be able to touch you then, Willy." Phil shifted his hand from the katana to the Desert Eagle. "Keep it from me and I'll carve you up like a Thanksgiving turkey." 

When Willy wasn't very forthcoming with any information, Phil sighed and rose to his feet. "Very well. I can see you need time to think on it. Its a little late to start torture tonight. So I'm going to go get some sleep. I'll check in with you first thing in the morning. If you don't have the answers I want then, we'll start with the dagger. I hope you don't need your fingers." 

~*~

Phil had to hand it to Willy. He held out for two hours before spilling everything. Phil barely even began the torture when the man started sobbing uncontrollably, begging for his life to be spared. Phil put forth a series of questions, asking who wanted Clint enough to kidnap him and where Phil could find him. Willy swore he didn't know, but he was the low man on the totem pole and he wouldn't know such things. However, he said he did know someone who might be able to give him names. Someone who was higher up on the underground's list of informants. Phil believed him because Willy was small potatoes.

The man happily named a broker in Venice who was rumored to work for the three biggest crime families in Italy. A man who went by the name of Dunne. Phil wrote down everything Willy told him on a sheet of paper in his neat, orderly script. When he had everything he figured he could get out of Willy, he did the man a favor and shot him in the head. Willy wouldn't ever have to worry about being tortured again.

It took Phil longer than he liked to locate Dunne. The man was paranoid as they came and made him play a game of cat and mouse until he was sure that Phil wasn't with any of the families or the police. When the two of them finally met face to face, Dunne was reluctant to share any information with Phil without having money in his hand first. So Phil drugged the son of a bitch and dragged him off to an empty building and waited for him to wake. 

Dunne didn't appreciate being tied to a chair with his hands cuffed to a metal table's surface. And he called Phil a few creative things in Italian when Phil politely asked for information about Clint. This carried on for several long minutes until Phil quietly brought out Ronin's sword, the big Desert Eagle, and the dagger. He gave Dunne the same ultimatum he'd given Willy. Dunne didn't so much as flinch. Phil smiled because he was looking forward to Dunne resisting.

He walked off and left Dunne to sit and think about what he'd been told. Gave the man one last night to feel whole. When he woke the next morning, he picked up the dagger and politely asked Dunne for information on Clint and his kidnappers once more. Dunne told Phil to stick it. Phil told Dunne he hoped the man enjoyed pain. And then he went to work.

Dunne's stubborn refusal to give Phil what he wanted lasted for three days. Three days during which time Phil took each finger off at the tip, then again at the mid-joint, then another time at the base. After each one, he cauterized the wound with a poker he'd fired until glowed red hot. Dunne's screams came high and breathy, filled with pain and just a touch of defiance. Once his fingers were gone, Phil started carving slices of flesh off the man's hide. Thin bits of skin that he laid out on the table where Dunne could see them. 

In the end, though, through snot and tears, Dunne gave him a name. It wasn't anyone who had involved with Clint's kidnapping directly, but Dunne assured Phil that it was someone who could help him find the culprits. Phil thanked him for his assistance and shot him in the head. Then he packed up and cleared out and went looking for the person Dunne had fingered. 

It was time consuming and annoying, to go from one lead to another. The next name on the list had another name, which Phil had gotten after a minimal amount of pistol whipping. He was careful enough that he didn't shattered the man's skull, but that didn't matter in the end. Because Phil made sure he cleaned up all of the loose ends. 

He went through six people. Six brokers who had wanted to see Ronin taken down. Six people who had helped plan Clint's abduction. There was a cold place in Phil's heart for those people and each of them met their death at the end of Phil's gun. But the parts of his soul that he'd broken off and destroyed with each body were worth it. Anything to find Clint and bring him home. And the last person, a man from Spain with greasy hair and a greasy moustache, had given Phil everything he needed to know. 

He extracted one of the burn phones he'd brought with for this occasion and dialed a number into it. It rang three times before it was picked up on the other end. "Coulson? Is that you?" 

"Its me," he confirmed. Fury sighed on the other end of the phone, a long sound of relief that Phil was sure he wasn't supposed to hear. 

"What's the word?" 

Phil smiled into the phone, even though he knew that Nick couldn't see it. "I have a location, sir. I need my team ready to go. I'm on my way back to headquarters."

**~*~**

Manuel Ortiz, Peter Jeffries, and Karel Grigoryev are all seated at a long table in a room with a two way mirror. Phil is sure that Fury is on the other side of the mirror, observing the whole interview of three major underworld figures because he is the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Also, Phil is sure he's there to make sure that nothing untoward happens to the men while in Phil's care. He can live with that. Besides, if he had planned on killing any of these men, that would have happened before he'd rescued Clint.

All three of them wear defiant faces, obviously under the impression that there is little to nothing that S.H.I.E.L.D. can do to them. They have much to learn about how things work. He wants to be smug, but he sticks with his bland look. They'll find out soon enough the way the world works for people like them who end up in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s custody. 

Phil takes the seat across from all three of them and carefully lays several files on the table before him. Grigoryev slaps a hand against the surface and makes the table jump. Phil's files move slightly but nothing spills out of them yet. Phil lifts pleasant, questioning eyes up to the big Russian. "I want my lawyer," he demands, accent adding exotic touches to his words. Phil's lips quirk up in the smallest of smiles and he manages to look genuinely contrite. 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Grigoryev. S.H.I.E.L.D. does deal with lawyers," Phil tells him politely. 

The man sputters for a moment or two, then frowns. "But you are Americans. Your laws say that every criminal is allowed to have an attorney present. I want my attorney." 

"Allow me to explain a few things to you, Mr. Grigoryev," Phil begins, hands moving to one of the files so he can pull out a few sheets of paper. He lets his eyes skim down the paper and shakes his head. Then he puts them down before him and rests his hands on either side of them. He knows that this will draw the man's attention to the papers. "This is a list of every crime you've committed since you were ten years old, living with your grandmother in Moscow until she died. Then you spent more time on the streets than with any kind of family. The list of your crimes is long, varied, and really quite impressive. We're most interested in the ones where you sold arms to our enemies. And the human trafficking. As well as the drug charges." 

Each word spoken makes Grigoryev pale a little further until he looks as white as a sheet. Phil lets his smile grow a little, lets it take on a more shark-like look. He folds his hands together and lifts his gaze to stare straight at the Russian. "We know that Ronin once systematically went through and killed off every single member of your network responsible for the deaths of those girls you were displeased with. We know that he cost you a great deal of time and money."

"You know nothing," Grigoryev insists. Phil only smiles.

"We know this," he continues, as if the other man never interrupted him. Grigoryev spits a curse at him in Russian. Phil's response is to finish it with the rest of the curse, his own Russian perfect and flawless. "As I was saying, we know this because Ronin has given us this information personally." He lets his hand shift to another file. This one is twice as thick as any of the other files on the table before him. All three sets of eyes move to look at the file. "Ronin has given us information on all of you. We plan on using this information to see to it that you never see the light of day again." 

"You would not work with Ronin. He's as much a criminal as you saw we are. He kills people," Peter Jeffries insists. "You said so yourself." 

"Yes. Ronin does kill people. He's an assassin. But he also has never once in his career assassinated an innocent. While Ronin operates outside of the law, he does not kill indiscriminately. He does not harm those who have done nothing wrong." 

"He's no better than Jeffries or Grigoryev," Ortiz suggests. Phil is not surprised that he's already trying to distance himself from the others. Too bad it won't do him any good. "You cut me a deal and I'll give you everything you need to know about these two." 

"But I already know everything I need to know about them. And you, Mr. Ortiz. S.H.I.E.L.D. keeps excellent records and we have access to information you know nothing about," Phil tells them, then sits back in his seat and regards them with a blank face. "Over the past two years, all three of you have been working together in an effort to kidnap Clint Barton. You mistakenly believe that he is Ronin. You couldn't be further from the truth. He's a well-respected agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. and we tend to take kidnapping one of our own rather seriously." 

"He is Ronin. He's the one who hit me up for information when that asshole kidnapped you," Ortiz blurts out, motioning toward Jeffries with one hand. 

"I'm sorry. I was under the impression that Ronin always wears a mask. Did you ever see Clint Barton's face when you met with Ronin? Did you ever see him wearing Ronin's clothing?" Phil asks even though he knows full well that no one had.

"He used a bloody bow to free you, didn't he?" Jeffries demands, tone haughty. The look he gives Phil is smug, as if he should be praised for knowing something that's common knowledge. "Everyone in the criminal world knows about S.H.I.E.L.D.'s pet archer."

"And everyone knows that Ronin does not deal well with those who cross him," Phil reminds them lightly. They each give him a look of confusion, as if they're not sure where this is going. Phil smiles and opens yet another file. Very carefully, he spreads out photos taken of Clint when he was unconscious, showing how badly injured he is. "What very few people know is that S.H.I.E.L.D. entered into a partnership several years ago. He supplies us with information and we allow him a certain amount of latitude in his business endeavors. When Agent Barton came to retrieve me from Triple A two years ago, he was working for both S.H.I.E.L.D. and Ronin."

"Barton is Ronin," Grigoryev says adamantly. 

"No. He isn't," Phil returns. There's no change to his tone, but its more forceful all the same. "Agent Barton was acting on Ronin's orders that day. Ronin requested Barton on that mission because I'm his liaison to S.H.I.E.L.D. The clothing, the weapons. Those all came straight from Ronin himself. As did the money. The two million dollars he paid for me. Which, if I remember correctly, you double crossed him on. Which means, gentlemen, that you are safer in our custody than you are on the streets."

Phil gathers up his things, tucking photos and sheets of paper back into the files they came from. He gives them his blandest look. "Fortunately for you, Agent Barton will live despite the severity of his injuries. Also fortunately for you, Ronin has agreed to let you live. Provided S.H.I.E.L.D. locks you up and loses the keys. We've assured him that not only will we lose the keys, we will also lose all information pertaining to your identities. You will be transported to a prison of our choosing, where you will be known only by the numbers you are assigned upon arrival. You will all spend the rest of your days in solitary confinement. There will be no visitors or contact with the outside world. There will only be a small, claustrophobic cell and the sound of your own voice." 

With that, Phil tucks the files under his arm and head for the door. They don't break out into a riot of noise until he puts his hand on the knob and turns. They're still yelling about lawyers and rights as he steps out into the hall. When he looks up from closing the door, Fury is standing before him, a question in his eyes. Phil could tell him what he wants so obviously to know. But he remains silent and waits for the other man to ask his question. 

Nick doesn't disappoint him. "Are you sure this is the wisest choice of action? This violates so many laws that--" 

The look Phil gives him brings him to silence. He makes sure Fury sees the anger in his eyes. Just this once. "Consider this a gift, Nick."

"You call this a gift?" Fury asks as Phil starts to walk away. 

Phil stops and looks at the man over his shoulder, poker face firmly screwed on. "I do. After all, I could have killed them."

**~*~**

_"We're in position, sir."_ Stevenson's voice was a quiet hush in his ear, the last member of his team to report in. Fury had given Phil a fifteen man team to rescue Clint and, based on the intel they'd gathered through information exchanges and recon, Phil had divided them into eight two-man teams. Each team had a different point of entrance. The end goal for all of them was to find Clint and get him out. If the men responsible for taking him died during the fight... Well. That was just fine by Phil.

"We go in on my mark. Not before. Everyone await my orders," Phil replied in a soft, emotionless voice that hid everything he felt. All of the fear and hope, the rage and disbelief. The information he'd gotten out of the Spaniard had been little more than a location, an old hospital in Algiers. Phil had used S.H.I.E.L.D. resources to find the rest of the pieces and put them all together. Satellite imaging and chatter from the ground had helped him pinpoint the location of said old hospital. A few informants in the city had told the agency that there were strangers living on the edge of the town, that they never left the safety of their property and had their supplies delivered to them. All the information gathering and the recon had taken several days, more time than Phil had been comfortable with. 

He hoped that Clint would forgive him for not getting him out sooner.

The comm was dead silent but it still crackled with anticipation. The entire team knew Clint and liked him. There was no one better to have at your back on a mission because Clint never missed. They were all just as eager as Phil was to get in and deal out a little payback for what had no doubt been done to their comrade. He let the moment stretch around them and did something he hadn't done since his very first days in the Army. He prayed.

Phil's voice when he spoke was a death knell ringing down across the comm."All units, you are clear for go." 

There was no betraying burst of noise as he and the others broke position and stormed the old hospital. Orders were to keep the gunfire to a minimum. Phil wasn't going to risk that the men who had taken Clint would kill him the moment they heard shots, so his men were expected to incapacitate using other methods. As for himself, Phil's sidearm was holstered. He'd already decided that he was walking into the fight with Ronin's sword in hand.

He and the agent he was teamed up with breached the facility through an old fire door that didn't shut properly anymore. It opened on aging hinges, the metal skree loud enough to give Phil pause. His partner stood waiting with his weapon out and pointed, back pressed to the door that was still shut. When there was no immediate reaction, neither a shout or a head peaking out to see what was going on, Phil nodded and ducked in through the doorway. The young agent followed him a second later. 

It was dark inside the building, the halls cloaked in choking shadows. The air was heavy and thick with disuse, with dust and dirt and old death. There was no lingering taint of antiseptic, just acrid layers of stale smoke, unwashed bodies, rank sweat, and rotting waste. A few rats scuttled out from under a pile of trash, squeaking noisily before disappearing under another pile of trash. Phil glanced at his backup and motioned with one hand for the man to go ahead. He got a silent nod before the agent started forward. As soon as he was out of sight, Phil slipped into a stair well and started climbing. 

There were benefits of using Ronin's name in his searches. He'd come across a few people in town, small potatoes in the underworld, who knew better than the cross the likes of Ronin and who were desperate for a few bucks. Phil had had no problems sharing a bit of his wealth if it netted him the information that they hadn't been able to find through less questionable sources. One of the people he'd questioned had a cousin who had been inside the hospital after the strangers had taken it over and he knew where everyone was located. Well, not the prisoner. But he'd been able to tell Phil where the men in charge were camped out.

Phil's shoes made no noise as he climbed the stairs, each foot coming down on the next step silent and sure. He moved slowly, with great purpose and always on the lookout for a stray enemy. It was going to be a long climb to the top floor of the hospital, but he'd get there. 

_"Agent Coulson, come in? Where are you, sir? Agent Coulson, do you copy?"_

Phil considered removing the comm unit, but decided against it because if he needed help, he wouldn't have time to put it back in place. So he ignored the voice in his ear and continued his climb. The stairwell was stifling hot, sending thin rivulets of sweat sliding down his back and chest. The body armor he'd strapped on over his undershirt and under his button down only added to the situation, but he wasn't about to storm this place without some protection. He might be feeling a little reckless but he wasn't stupid. 

_"Agent Coulson. Sir. Come in. Are you hurt? Do you need assistance? Agent Coulson? Respond?"_

He ignored this voice as easily as the last, his mind sliding into the darkness where he stored all of the knowledge he would need for the upcoming confrontation. There were so many layers to Phil Coulson, layers that most people had never seen. Would never see. He'd honestly never thought that he'd have need of this particular skill set again. He never actually wanted Clint to know about this part of him. But circumstances had changed and now he had no choice. He hoped that Clint would be able to forgive him. One day.

Bursts of chatter crackled to life over the comm on occasion, mostly his team wondering where he was and if he was okay. Until he had Clint safe, he planned on letting them wonder. If Fury wanted to take him to task for his part in this mission, he'd deal with that later. For now, though, all of his focus was on finding his targets and eliminating them.

There were few guards on the top floor. The _hira shuriken_ were silent and effective in dealing with the ones he came across. Once they were down, he sneaked past on silent feet toward the one closed door at the end of the hall. Someone had put all of the hospital's offices up on the top floor, so it was a single, wide hallway that had many doors opening up off of it. Katana held loosely in one hand, Phil advanced on the door. Any doubts about his quest died the second he put his hands on the knob. Any concerned he had about whether or not he was doing the right thing withered away when he opened the door and saw three men huddled around a black and white television, watching the staticky images that played on its screen. 

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Phil said. startling the three of them away from their sport. All three stood and turned to face him. Three hands had been going toward guns tucked away at the back of their waists, but stopped upon seeing the blade Phil held aloft. "Ronin sends his regards. And he'd like you to know that he wants his employee back." 

It was Ortiz that stepped forward, cocky smile on his face and hand once more going for his gun. "Ronin is locked up downstairs." 

"Is he?" Phil asked quietly and gave an experimental twirl of the blade in his hand. He made sure that the decorative design showed. The broker's eyes went wide, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline. "Ronin is most displeased that the three of you thought you could punish one of his employees for doing his job. He allowed my to bring this as a sign that whatever happens here today is his bidding. If you want to die for interfering in his affairs, then I am authorized to deliver that death. With extreme prejudice." 

Uncertainty touched all three of them, sending their eyes shifting around to look at each other. Phil could see that they were trying to decide if this was real or not. While they did so, he took the opportunity to draw his weapon and point it at them. The sheath for the katana was strapped to his back and Phil resheathed it without taking his attention away from the three men before him. When they finally decided to take note of him again, he had the dark eye of his firearm aimed dead center of Ortiz's forehead.

"You aren't good enough to pull the trigger and kill all three of us before one of us draws on you," Jeffries insisted. Phil noticed, despite his boast, his hand didn't inch anywhere near his weapon. Phil only gave them a bland smile and tightened his finger on the trigger. 

"Are you so sure about that? Would you like to try me and see? I have no problems dropping all three of you here and now. It leaves me with more paperwork, true. But there would be less hassle. I wouldn't have to figure out what to do with you," Phil told him, giving them a shrug. "Trust me, gentleman. I want nothing more than to put you down here and now. I'm itching to do it. But it was impressed upon me how important it is for you to remain living so that Ronin can exact his own version of revenge upon you."

That seemed to get him a reaction. Ortiz shivered while Jeffries actually took half a step back. Grigoryev's hand clenched into a fist at his side. Phil let his smile grow. Just a touch. "Of course, you have one other option open to you. You can surrender yourself into my custody and I can take you back to S.H.I.E.L.D. with me. We will protect you from Ronin, naturally. But it will come at a price." 

The Russian snorted at that. Phil only lifted a brow.

"Think on this, gentlemen. And do so quickly. This offer has a shelf life of about ten seconds." 

Phil cocked the gun, let the metallic click of the hammer locking into place echo menacingly around the room. It took the three of them about two seconds to realize that they stood a better chance in custody than they did on the streets. Because the doubt was there. They weren't sure that Clint really was Ronin anymore. And if he wasn't, if Ronin was behind his being rescued, they were in deep shit. They'd spend the rest of their short lives looking over their shoulders for Ronin, waiting for him to end them. Slowly, one by one, they put their weapons down and put their hands in the air. 

"I need three teams up to the top floor, last room at the end of the hall. Hostiles are contained," Phil said into the comm. He tuned out the chatter that followed, kept his gaze trained on the other three men in the room. 

It didn't take long for the requested teams to arrive and bind their hands. Phil didn't take his weapon off them until they were well and truly in custody. When he finally let down his guard, when he could holster his gun, it took everything in him to ease back on the hammer and put it away. He watched his men lead the three of them away. A voice in his head and the tension in his hand screamed that he should have pulled the trigger anyway.

**~*~**

Clint clicks the television off with a huff of disgust and casually tosses the remote down on the coffee table before him. Boredom is eating at the edges of his brain, making him testy and restless. He's been put on medical leave, naturally, and he's only just released from the infirmary a couple days ago. The limits and restrictions placed upon him by the doctors are annoying. He _feels_ fine. He hates sitting around with nothing to do. He should be on the range, practicing so that he doesn't lose his edge. He should be scaring junior agents. He should be finding ways to sneak into maximum security so that he can repay a little of the torture he'd suffered. He should be doing something, anything, other than sitting in front of the television. There's nothing on worth watching and he's afraid if he has to sit through another episode of "Toddlers and Tiaras" or "Dance Moms" that he'll kill what few remaining functioning brain cells he has.

Phil comes out of the kitchen, dressed in a faded t-shirt and even more faded jeans. He looks damned good like that but even _that's_ off limits right now. There's a spoon in his hand and a frown on his face. "Don't abuse the remote control, Clint. It isn't to blame for your restlessness." 

He rolls his eyes at that. "I'm bored, Phil. I should be off shooting or something."

Phil gives him a faintly amused look. "I realize that being laid up is your least favorite thing in the world. However, I feel that now is a good time to point out that you still have stitches in your chest. Going to the range and shooting for several hours will only rip them out. Then you'll be sidelined even longer. Might I suggest that you put in a movie or even play a video game." 

Clint shoots Phil a dirty look, utterly betrayed by his boyfriend's lack of commiseration. "You're no fun, Phil." 

"After everything I went through to get you back, do you really think I'm going to let you hurt yourself further? The doctor wants you completely healed up before you can even think about picking up your bow again. You'll survive for a few more days."

"You're a cruel man, Phil Coulson," Clint tell him.

"You have no idea, Clint," Phil replies softly. That voice is enough to bring Clint's gaze up to Phil's face and he sees, not for the first time, a hint of the darkness that lurks at the back of his stare. Clint's seen it more the past few days, though he's always known it was there. And that's when it hits Clint. That's when he realizes just what it is he's seeing. He's seen that look before.

He frowns and pushes up off the couch, taking careful steps toward the window so he can stare out at the park that backs up to their condo. His hands curl into fists, nails biting into his palms as he thinks about things. Really thinks about things. 

He's tried so hard to keep that side of him buried, tried hard to keep the persona of Ronin apart from Clint Barton, apart from who he really is. He's tried hard because he does not like who Ronin is and what Ronin will do. Clint has always known who he was, has always known right from wrong. Maybe his morals are a little skewed because he's never really balked at killing someone, but he's never hurt someone intentionally. And he's never liked the fact that Ronin will do whatever he has to in order to get the job done. He's never liked the fact that it would have been so easy to give in to that side of him. 

The darkness he's seen lurking in Phil's eyes lately is the same darkness he feels when he becomes Ronin. He knows it lives inside of him, in the very depths of his heart. That darkness has always been there, a gift to him from his own flesh and blood. It is a darkness he had to fight every time he donned the mask. He hates the person that darkness wants him to be. To know that Phil opened his arms to that darkness, that he used it and reveled in it in order to get Clint back twists a blade in his heart. Makes his stomach roil with bitter acid. Because he knows that he doesn't deserve that kind of thought or devotion. He's not worth Phil's ruination.

He stays facing the window, nails digging harder into his palms. "Why?" he asks, voice a harsh, hoarse rasp that shatters the fragile silence. 

"Clint?" Phil asks softly. There is a hint of confusion in that one word that sees Clint turning to face his lover. It isn't something the other man would fake and a look at his expression says he genuinely does not know what Clint is asking.

"Why, Phil? Why would you do that? Why would you let yourself become..." The question trails off and Clint shakes his head. Disgust and bile are bitter at the back of his throat. "You shouldn't have, Phil. You should have let them finish me off. It is the least I deserve for everything I've ever done. I'm not a good man. You shouldn't sully yourself out of some misguided sense of affection for me."

Clint knows his own value. He's lived with it all of his life. Hard not to know when the people who are supposed to love you keep telling you you're worthless. When they keep leaving you behind. That's why he's always depended only upon himself, why he's never expected anyone to stick around for very long. And that's why he can't understand how Phil would want to do horrible things to find him and get him back. Because he knows he just isn't worth it. Not in the grand scheme of things. Not when he knows Phil is so much better than he is and he could have anyone in the world. 

"You did something you found distasteful to come after me. Because you thought I was worth it," Phil tells him quietly. Given the way his voice echoes, Clint can tell he hasn't moved. "You're worth it to me, Clint. Whatever I had to do to find you, I'd do it again. A hundred times. A thousand times. Again and again. Because I think you're worth it. You're worth it to me." 

Phil's voice is earnest, pleads with Clint to understand. The tone of his voice has remained the same and nothing has changed on his lover's face, but he can see the truth behind the words shining in Phil's blue eyes. Phil means it. Every last bit of it. He has no problems with what he did. And Clint can't understand why. "You're better than that," he whispers, trying to keep his throat from closing up on the words.

"I am not a nice man, Clint," Phil tells him. There is something lurking under his words that Clint can't quite name. Not just yet. But there's such an intense look in Phil's eyes. Much as Clint wants to turn away from the outrageousness of Phil's statement, that look won't let him. It is filled with the cold, hard truth. "One doesn't survive the Army and the Rangers by being nice. One doesn't climb to the highest ranks within S.H.I.E.L.D. by being nice. I knew what I was going to be up against when I came to get you. And I didn't care. Because you are more important to me than any of that. My past? Doesn't exist now. Just like your past is over and done with." 

"I never asked you to become someone you aren't anymore, Phil. I never wanted you to do those things for me." 

"Clint, you took on Ronin to get me back. You risked who you are to find me when everyone else had given up. I never asked you to, yet you did it anyway. How could I do any different where you're concerned?" Phil shakes his head and closes the distance between them. There is no difference in his voice, but Clint can hear the change anyway. There is emotion there now, emotion Phil will not hide. "I know how hard that was for you. I know that becoming Ronin, even for a few hours, eats away at the man you are on the inside. You might not think it, but you're a good man. You don't kill indiscriminately. You don't take the lives of the innocent. You don't do those things as Clint Barton. You didn't do them as Ronin." 

"Phil," he begins, only to have the other man cut him off. Phil gives him a look, one that says he needs to shut up and listen. 

"No, Clint. Just no. I did what I had to do because I will never, ever leave you behind. I won't leave any man behind if I can help it, but you are the most important person in my life. I know you don't like who you become when you don Ronin's personality. I know you hate it because he pulls apart your sanity and makes you wonder if you're a monster for doing the things you do. You are the best person I know. You could never be a monster because you've seen real monsters. That's why you're good at what you do. Because you don't want anyone else to have to live with the monsters." Phil stops and shakes his head, a gesture that looks equal parts futility and desperation. It matches the expression Phil wears. It is not a look he's seen on his lover wear before. 

He steps closer and lays his hands on Clint's face, makes him look directly into Phil's eyes. "I'm going to ask you a question, Clint. I want you to think about the answer before you give it to me. And I want you to give me an honest answer. Okay?" 

Clint nods, voice locked in his throat. He doesn't know what to do with the earnestness in Phil's voice and in his expression. So he simply stares. And waits. And hopes. "Do you think I'm a monster, Clint?" 

Phil's question is unexpected. It takes Clint by surprise. He stares a moment or two, then shakes his head. "No." 

"Even though I killed people to find you? Even though I tortured and killed them in Ronin's name?" he asks. Clint blinks at him. He hadn't been aware that Phil had done it all in Ronin's name. 

"You killed in Ronin's name. In my name. Phil..." Clint trails off, words failing him. He really doesn't understand this. 

"And I would do it again, Clint," Phil explains. There is a slightly desperate quality to his voice, but anyone who didn't know him wouldn't detect it. "Because you are worth all of that and more. I will never let you down, Clint. I will never let you go. And I will never let you become something you hate." 

Clint gives him a look that Phil must interpret to mean he needs to convince Clint further. His expression softens into one that shines with emotion. His eyes almost glow with what he feels. It makes Clint's heart beat out a peculiar rhythm. "Clint. I love you. I have for a long time now. I would never love someone who was capable of visiting horror on people without remorse. You are better than you think you are. You are the most amazing person I know. Your life was hard as hell, but you didn't let it turn you bitter and withdrawn. You laugh and love without reserve. You are the best thing to ever happen to me. And I am never, ever going to let go of you." 

There is such earnest sincerity in Phil's words that Clint can't help but believe him. It is something he's never thought about before. When Phil was captive, the only thing Clint had been able to think about was getting him back. Making the people who had dared touch him pay for their sins. He hadn't really allowed himself to think about why until he'd had Phil safe in his arms once again. The truth of the matter was that Clint loved Phil more than he loved himself. And he would do anything to keep Phil safe. He'd never really considered that maybe Phil felt the same way about him.

They've been together ever since Phil's rescue. Clint has thought, somewhere at the back of his twisted mind, that Phil has been at his side out of gratitude. Oh, he's told Clint numerous times that he loves him. But Clint's track record with love is not the best in the world. So he's always taken Phil's confessions with a grain of salt. Love is not permanent and love doesn't conquer all. Or so he's always thought. But maybe, just maybe, he's wrong about that. Maybe this thing with Phil is more than obligation and gratitude. Maybe, this is what love really looks like.

When Clint comes out of his head, its to find that Phil is watching him carefully, his expression still open and so very tender. Clint gives him a smile, something that feels tentative and maybe a little stiff on his face. He can tell that it isn't the smile he's used to giving people and he wonders how he's been giving Phil a not quite real smile all this time. 

Phil's waiting anxiously for him to say something. Clint can see it on his face. He searches for words, trying to find the right ones. But nothing is forthcoming. Nothing that could possibly convey everything he's feeling. So he reaches out to lay one hand against Phil's face. His lover doesn't press his cheek into the touch, but his smile brightens. Clint lays the other hand on the other cheek and he pulls Phil in. There is no hesitance at all as they meet and Clint presses his lips to Phil's. 

The kiss is all electricity and heat, with the burning glide of tongues as they melt into one another. Phil's hands are gentle and sure as they glide down Clint's back and around to his hips. He pulls Clint in closer, aligning their bodies so that the hardening length of his cock is pressed against Clint's. His body explodes with want and Clint pulls his mouth from Phil's with a low, needy groan. "Damn you. You know I'm supposed to be taking it easy. Doctor's orders. No overexertion."

"Then we'll take it slow and easy. Don't worry, Clint," Phil smiles, that one smile that he never shares with anyone else. "I'll be gentle with you." 

Clint can't help but laugh, chuckles rolling up his throat as he allows Phil to guide him toward their bedroom. A pleasant warmth is rolling through his chest, leaving him tingling in anticipation. He has no worries that Phil will be gentle. And he is very much looking forward to the thoroughness with which Phil will explore his body. By the time they've made it to the bedroom, Clint's hard as a rock and eager to go. 

It isn't until they're standing in their bedroom, hands working at freeing one another from their clothes, that Clint's eyes land on the black laptop still sitting on the top of their dresser. That reminds him of something. "I was looking at my accounts earlier, Phil," he begins by way of introduction to the topic. The other man looks at him with one brow lifted in silent query. "And the account that holds Ronin's money has had a deposit made to it recently. Why am I up two million dollars?"

Phil gives him a look that suggests he's stupid for even needing to ask that question. Then his hand does a damn fine job of distracting Clint from the current topic. Phil leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Just shut up and lay back, Clint. I promise you're going to enjoy this." 

"Yes, sir," Clint mouths off, a grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. He lets Phil take him down to the bed, lets him lay him out across the comforter and do with him as he will. Because Phil made him a promise.

And Phil has never gone back on a promise.

**Author's Note:**

> this fic might never have been written had it not been for Gwyn popping up in feelschat one day to say she'd had a single line stuck in her head that just wouldn't let go. surprisingly, it was terribly similar to a line i'd had in my head for a while. we shared our lines and then this was born out of it. 
> 
> i never meant for it to get this long, but this is the problem with my brain. it can never do things simply.


End file.
